


In the morning

by BlazeRiddle



Series: Practice [2]
Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock/Original Work crossover, Fluff, MINOR DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE, cat!lock, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Animals are humans. They exist for sure. I am Fire, and Flames, and Cat.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>One day, John finds out. They talk about it, in the morning. </p><p>(Crossover with my original work, where a group of <i>mutants</i> exist secretly in the world, hid away from everyone and only talked about in whispers - and in the novels created by their alleged 'leader', Phoenix))</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the morning

John could've known.

There was evidence in everything the detective did; the way how he sprawled on the sofa, how he sauntered around like he owned the place, all the time, how he could sneak up on John anytime, no matter how alert the ex-army man was, in his sense of smell, his lean and strong body, his way of picking up on everything.

In all fairness, there was nothing _to_ know, officially. Everything known about people like Sherlock came from rumours, whispers in the streets, horror stories to keep children home at night. But John believed the stories; he'd once met one of them, back in Afghanistan, and he had been certain she hadn't been the only one.

It didn't really come out, she'd told him, unless one wanted it to, or if one lost control. Sherlock _never_ lost control.

Still, he could've known.

*

He found out on a Friday night, during one of those cases that went horribly wrong. They had been hunting down a suspect without backup, and when they had entered a warehouse, John in front, the suspect turned out to be plural. John had been smashed into a wall by one of them, head slamming into the concrete with a dull thud. He tried to fight back, but he was dazed and the man trying to bash his head in was strong. He groaned weakly as he felt the blood flow down his face, trying to ignore the thudding pain and futilely trying to fight back.

There had been a groan behind him, a _what the-_ uttered by another assailant, and then a few groans and a muffled growl, and the man was pulled off of John's back with a cry.

John managed to turn and watched Sherlock in the barely lid room, sight bleary and balance all but gone. _Thank gods for walls_ , he thought, staring at his friend, too beat to really feel surprised.

There were two pairs of bright white canines shining in the faint light, his eyes slightly _off_ but pupils blown in the lack of light. From between his dark curls, the triangular silhouettes of two pointy ears stuck out. When Sherlock's eyes met his, they widened in shock and his hands shot up to cover his ears.

"Oh, shi-" He tore the beanie hat from one of the unconscious men and pulled it over his own head quickly. John tried to stop him, but, alas, the detective jumped out of one of the glassless windows - John was momentarily frightened - and was gone, gone in the night.

John sighed. They would have to talk about this when he got home, if Sherlock would go there. _Fuck_ , he thought, _this is big_. _This is very, very big._

*

Sherlock was home, heavens be praised. He was holed up in his room, door firmly shut. John didn't need to check it to know it was locked. After a long sigh, he opted to make tea, for himself, and for the impossible man. He left it at the bedroom door, and told the detective in Morse. Then, he went upstairs.

Anything else could wait until morning.

*

Mornings, John surmised as he forced himself to move down the stairs, were not a brilliant invention. He'd never really been a fan of them, and especially after cases that went on until the early hours, he'd rather spend them in bed, dozing until he had decided it was a decent hour to be alive. This morning, though, he had something to take care of, so he'd dragged himself out of bed at seven, well before Sherlock would be off to do his things, and dragged himself down the few steps to the living room. Sherlock was there, on the sofa, his eyes shut and his hands under his chin in his thinking pose, and John _saw_ , now, as obvious as if he'd written it down. He smiled at the man and went to make two cups of coffee before he sat down in his own chair.

"If you're going to report me, you might as well do it now." The detective rumbled, not moving. "The press will be thrilled to finally have proof."

John chuckled, and the sound seemed to be so shocking that Sherlock's eyes shot open and he suddenly was sitting upright.

" _What?_ "

John sipped his coffee with raised brows. "You're not my first, you know." He said, steadily looking at his friend. "Come on, have some coffee."

Sherlock did, wearily studying him over the rim of his mug all the while. "Not your first?" He asked, after a big gulp and a small pause. John shrugged.

"Afghanistan." He said. "One day, there had been a bombing. There was just one victim, miraculously, a young woman. I was the only free doctor, so I got to treat her." John paused for a moment, remembering. "She had been right in the middle of the explosion, but she had no burn marks. Broken bones and open wounds from the impact and the shards, but no burns." John shook his head. "I remember thinking how impossible it seemed, but at the time, I just did what I had to do. When she woke, she requested to see me alone, and told me-" He closed his eyes, seeing the ghosts of her face. Hearing her voice as clear as the day the words were burned into his mind, " _For your own good, Doctor Watson, do not breathe a word of this to anyone. If you do, tell them-_ She'd cringed in pain and taken a deep breath, she shouldn't have been awake at all - _animalibus hominibus sunt. Existunt pro certa. Ignis et flamma et felis sum_ _._ " John frowned, "Yeah, I think that was it."

Sherlock gasped, and suddenly he was right in front of John's chair, looming over him as he leaned his hands on the armrests of the chair. "Did she say that?" He asked, something glinting in his eyes. "The _Ignis et Flamma et Felis sum_ part?" The multicoloured eyes sparked dangerously and John could sense the detective burn with sudden energy. He nodded, dumbfounded at the change. A grin broke on Sherlock's face and he straightened and started pacing.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

The man suddenly turned, his face radiant."Did you see her torso?" He asked, moving to the stuffed bookcase and moving his fingers over the binds. "Did you see her shoulder?"

"Yes..." John said, slowly, thinking back. "She had an odd scar on her shoulder, almost as if she'd been shot, only... different. It looked a bit-"

"Like a spider's web." Sherlock had found the book he was searching for, and opened it on a marked page before holding it out to John. John frowned. It looked like a simple novel, nothing Sherlock would read. The detective pointed at a paragraph.

"Read." John did.

_He understood why she didn't like to show off her shoulder; The scar was, even after the years, still an angry red, a deep indent where the stick had gone through her shoulder surrounded by a network of lines, scars from surgeries and reopened wounds, marks from battle and life. Yes, he understood why she preferred T-shirts._

John nodded, envisioning it. "That's her." He said, taking the book from him and looking at the cover. It _was_ just a novel, judging by the bright colours. "What is this?"

Sherlock stood back, hands behind his back. "The third in a series describing how _we_ came into existence, cleverly disguised as a teen's novel." He reported. "That woman you saved is the one that started it all, according to that."

"Right." John placed the book down and looked at his friend. Sherlock still looked nervous, as if John could jump up and report him to the press at any moment. _I could_ , John realised. _But I won't. Never._

John cocked his head. "I'll want to read those, one day. For now-" John gestured to the man's body. "-show me." When Sherlock just blinked at him, he elaborated; "The thing you did yesterday, Sherlock. I want to see it."

Sherlock looked at him, then moved to the window and closed the blinds before moving so John could see him fully. He closed his eyes, set his jaw, and then the changes began. First, slowly, his posture changed, just slightly, and then his face changed- his ears migrated upwards, disappeared under his hair and appeared again, covered in dark brown fur in the same colour of his rich curls. After a moment, a tail flicked out from behind him in the same colour. John stared at it in awe.

Sherlock looked _beautiful_. Everything, the ears, the tail, the entire attitude, looked _magnificent_ on him. The man looked almost eternal as he opened his eyes, his _cat_ eyes, and stared nervously at the doctor. One ear flicked. Without thinking, John stood, circled the man, and sunk down on the couch to study the tail up close. When he reached a tentative hand out and touched it, Sherlock jumped and turned, baring his teeth.

"Sorry." John said, sheepishly. "Can you maybe... sit down?" He patted the couch next to him. Sherlock did, sitting close and turned his way, looking down shyly.

"Can I...?" John reached up and touched one ear, fingers ghosting over it, tracing it until they reached its base. He rubbed, feeling the delicate skin and fur in his hand, amazed.

Sherlock purred, then froze and pulled back, covering his ears. "Sensitive." He mumbled, and John thought he saw the detective blush. He frowned.

"Good sensitive or bad sensitive?"

Sherlock's head shot up, his hands shot down and he stared at the doctor. After a moment, his eyes darted down to the couch cushions.

"Good... good sensitive." It came out as a whisper, but it was enough for the doctor to move his hand back and scratch behind the ears, and this time the detective relaxed, went boneless, started to rumble like a small car. John smiled and carefully, very carefully, manoeuvred the head to his lap until the detective was lying down.

 

"John?" The man managed, a long time later, sounding completely blissed out.

"Yes?"

"What are you... doing?"

John didn't quite know, himself. _What I want_ wouldn't be an accepted answer, he thought. _What I need_ would be a bit creepy, and anything else, what he really felt, was too hard to put into words, still.

"Just enjoy it, you git."

 _I'll figure it out._ He thought, leaning his head back against the couch and resuming the movements of his hands. _In the morning._

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is probably going to be a series.  
> [my tumblr - feel free to leave prompts/requests!](blazeriddle.tumblr.com)


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